Closed Doors
by One Evil Girl
Summary: Not everyone knows what happens behind closed doors. The secrets that people will hide even from the people that they would die for. Harry Potter's life is not as pretty as you think. [deals with self injury and child abuse]
1. Prologue

It was always at the night that Harry Potter always felt alone; listening to the soft hoots from Hedwig as she rushed out of her cage and out into the small town. There was something about the crisp air, the twinkling stars, and the midnight blue that had a certain calmness to it. As if it could sing him to sleep. But the room was bitter cold, unusual as summer was at its height. There was not a rain cloud in the sky.

There were about four weeks before he would go back, go back to the only place that he could go home. The house he lived in, covered in the worn, thin blankets was not something he looked forward to at the end of spring. He hated how his family treated, the cruelty that they inflicted on him without much thought. But The Order did not see this, despite the many eyes that were on him. How could wizards and witches be so damned blind? His home was thousands miles away from this place.

The only sound was his quill, scratching up against the brown-stained parchment. He was using the only free time, the only break his aunt and uncle gave him to do some summer homework. If they could, he thought to himself, they would of made him work at night as well. But it always came down to what their neighbors would say. As if their family had some sort of honor to hold. The perfect little family on the perfect little corner.

His hands muffled his laugh.

A tapping noise was heard from the distance, a sign that Hedwig had returned from her nightly hunt. He had assumed that she had ate, hidden in one of the various trees as the rodent (he assumed) was torn apart by her beck and her talons. It was a gruesome thought. But something about animals amazed him. How innocent and understanding that they could be. It was a wonderful thing to know he could tell Hedwig his deepest, darkest secrets and that she lacked the ability to tell anyone. It was a rush having someone to listen to him. At least, knowing that his owl would always be there for him.

He got up, pushing both the quill and the parchment under the pillow. The tapping noise only grew louder and louder with each passing second. Slowly, he started to get up from his bed as he tiptoed over towards the window. Carefully he pulled it up; watching as the snowy owl flew quickly into the cage door. Hedwig hooted softly, giving the teenage boy a look as she perched herself onto the stick. But Harry shrugged, closing the window door.

"Did you have a good hunt?"

The owl gave a small hoot.

"Did you get something to eat?"

Another hoot.

"I know. It is almost morning."

Harry Potter turned his head towards the window, watching as the waves of red, yellow, and pink started to make their way into the horizon. A pang of fear crawled down his spine. His uncle would be up within the hour, getting "ready" for work. Standing there, wide-awake would not be good enough for the middle-aged man. He would demand punishment…he would demand something from him. Not sleeping would be deemed abnormal to him. There was a sense of panic on the child's face.

A large cloth was thrown over the cage. Everything had to the perfect. He started to quickly throw stuff under the floorboard, hidden from the human eye. The summer homework and the used quill were tucked in under his pillows. He crawled into bed, throwing the thin and worn covers over his body. Finally satisfied, he laid his glasses on the nearby nightstand.

Footsteps were heard, and he could fear his heart jump as they got closer and closer. Time was quickly ticking away. He almost jumped at the sound of the door opening, the large man appearing at the doorway. But he had to remain cool and calm. There was no sign of fear but the look in his emerald-colored eyes.

"Boy!" He hollered, as if he had a reason to get mad.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get out of bed!" His voice was loud, echoing in the small room. A deep redness started to spread out throughout his face with each word. Anger---that was what it would like if emotions had a face.

Harry Potter scrambled out of bed.

"When I come home," he ordered, "I expect every chore to be done and the house to be neat. There is no magic, no sleeping, and no nothing. You know what the punishments are by now." He was seething.

"Yes, sir."

Vernon's raised his eyebrows. His right hand was raised up in the air, slamming down into the middle of the boy's face. He did this a few times, feeling satisfied as the red marked remained. Grabbing the boy's arms, he looked into his eyes. Laughing to himself, he pushed the fragile boy away. "Did you listen?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He was not afraid. He had survived worse as the hands of his uncle. Why should he be afraid? Harry Potter had faced Voldemort, watched Cedric die, and faced death too many times to count. But he felt his body shake as he watched his uncle leave the room. The sound of the footsteps growing softer was a signal to him that it was finally safe to move again.

Like a zombie, he started to pull the oversized blue pajama top over his head. Various scars, from belts nonetheless, covered from the back of his neck to the lower parts of his back. He twitched slightly, feeling as the material rubbed against some of the newer marks. This was something that would happen when the standards were not set, or at least that was what he was told.

"Is it wrong to be scared?" He was talking to no one at all. What had happen to the confidence that flowed through him during the school year? He had felt so safe and loved in the company of his friends. But like his childhood, he was alone behind closed doors.


	2. Chapter One

Watching Cedric die had killed a part of him, knowing that it was his fault tore through his heart like a spear. There was no way that he could make it go away, no amount of screaming ever seemed to take away the pain. But one thing, something that had happen by accident. An incident that had not be planned or wanted, but something that he craved during the day. The long sleeved of Dudley's old shirt covered it perfectly, hiding it from the untrusting eyes of his so-called family. They were the only living relatives of him.

His schedule was planned out from him. He would get up in the early hours of the morning, make breakfast for the family, start on his chores, make lunch for Dudley, finish up his chores, make dinner, and then sit in the room as he waited on his Uncle Vernon. There he would wait to see if his passed the "daily test" or if he failed. It was rare that he ever passed, minus a day or two where his uncle was too busy to even care. He savored those moments in his life.

"Hmm."

Looking down, he pulled another weed from the garden and threw it into the faded red and yellow bucket. There was not enough time to fix the garden before lunch, and after that he would have to straighten up the rooms and vacuum the living room. There was so much to do in a short amount of time. He was used to pressure, but the punishments were never that bad. Or they were, but they had stopped for a few years after they had found out that he was a wizard. Their attempts to squash out the magic blood in him had failed. For a while, he enjoyed the fear that his mere presence gave him.

Another weed was pulled from the ground as he started to move down towards the right. His hands were starting to throb slightly from the continuous motion. A small outside clock was indicating that it was eleven-fifty, only ten more minutes until lunch would have to start. At least it would be simple compared to breakfast and dinner. Making five sandwiches was not a big deal as cooking a full-course meal for three people. He had been doing this as long as he could remember. They had taught him when he was three, realizing that he had some potentional. But merely he was the muggle version of an house elf. Hermione would probably flip if he ever mentioned this to her face. Ron would probably be shocked. Ginny? He quickly frowned at that the thought of his best friend's younger sister.

Quickly pulling the weeds into the bucket, he got up from his sitting position, dumping the weeds into the trashcan on the way into the house. Aunt Petunia was sitting in one of the chair, her nose buried in some celebrity gossip magazine. The bony, horse-faced woman did not noticed him as he started to make his way towards the fridge and counter.

"Are you done?" For a moment, Petunia pulled her face from the crinkled magazine and turned her direction towards her nephew. Her mousy-brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun. She was not attractive by any means. "Dudley was complaining of being hungry." Her voice was soft, but it held a certain amount of annoyance and hatred. It was clear that she hated the boy for reasons unknown, deeper than she would ever know.

"Yes." Harry stated. "I pulled the weeds out from the garden, put them in the bucket, and dumped them out." He faked a smile, nodding as he pulled some cheddar cheese and ham from the small fridge. The bread was already on the counter.

"Good." She simply said, turning back towards the direction of the magazine.

He threw a few pieces of bread onto the plate, laying two pieces of cheese and ham on each. After squiring a small amount of mustard, he laid another pieces of bread on each other. Finally done, he started to carry the plate onto the table.

Petunia did not say anything.

"I finished." He said.

Dudley grinned widely, walking in. A gameboy was quickly thrown onto the table as he pushed his cousin out of the way. "Thanks." He laughed out loud, shoving one of the sandwiches into his mouth.

"I am going up," he said to no one, "to clean."

With that, he walked away and up the steps through the long hallway.

Author's Note: For some reason when I uploaded the second part it kept coming up as the first part even if I was uploading the second part. Hence I just edited it, and copy and pasted instead.


	3. Chapter Two

_Dementors!_

Harry cursed out loud, bring his fists as he brought them down onto the bed below. But no sound was heard, the mattress silencing the physical anger. There was no emotion that could ever explain what was running through his mind and heart. How did they get there? Why were they even there in the first place? He was mixed-up in confusion. Dudley was downstairs, in a state of shock, as he was locked-up in the prison-like bedroom.

Again.

It was like his second year, where the bars were glued onto the window and the bedroom door was bolted shut. They would push a piece of day-old toast and water through a small dog door. Sometimes they were days where they would forget about him. He was used to it, where in his childhood there would be weeks and months at a time where he would barely eat anything. Those times he would sneak a piece of toast as he cooked, or made sure to get a sip of water while everyone was busy watching television. He was thin, frail, and small for his age. The bones were clear and evident in his neck. The weight he had put on at Hogworts was quickly dropping off.

He had had always thought his aunt and cousin as ignorant people, always turning their heads the other direction when they clearly knew what was happening of their roof. Sometimes they would be nice, giving him a band-aid or two for Christmas or a bottle of scar remover for his birthday. Sometimes his aunt would stare at his face, and give him this look of pity. As if for a moment she cared about him. This was always crushed by the moment that she started to scream and yell at him for missing a spot or upsetting her only son. His aunt was abusive, but on a verbal level. But his uncle was worse, much worse than he could ever imagine.

The whole evening had been a nightmare. He had returned home, dragging the semi-conscious body of his overweight cousin home to his house. The next thing he remembered was his uncle had suddenly flown into a rage, hitting and throwing him until he was bruised and bloody. He was locked up in the room, told that he would never attend his "stupid" school again. The faint steps rushing back downstairs had told him it was safe again for the time being. But it could not heal the bruises that scattered his back, his arms, and his legs. Somehow he ignored it, slamming down onto his firm mattress. The anger overcame the physical pain.

_I am sick of it._ He was tired, he was exhausted, and the only thing he wanted to do was to crawl up under the covers and fall asleep. Questions were going through his head if he was going to be even to wait for four weeks or even survive the night. What was there to say that his uncle would not come back, and try to kill him after what he had done with his son? No amount of reasoning would ever help. Nothing could. And this pained him.

Getting up from his spot, the boy who lived slowly made his way over towards the floorboard. Lifting it up from the ground, he moved over towards the left. Moving his wand and folded-up parchment, he slowly pulled out a small wooden box from the bottom. A small, green "H" was painted on the middle. He opened it up quickly, a muggle shaving razor laying on top of a velvet bottom. This was the only place he knew no one would look at him. What teenage boy kept a ring box under a floorboard? But he smiled as he took it off, laying it onto the ground. Slowly he lowered himself onto the floor.

Time had seemed to slow down for him. He yanked up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing a row of both fresh cuts and old scars. He grasped the razor with right hand as he placed it on his left arm. Looking down closely, he moved it across leaving a semi-shallow cut in its wake. The edges of the wound were slightly separated. Blood started to fill up the cut before dribbling down his arm. It took thirty minutes more before it started to completely run down his arm. He cut his arm a few more times before he was finally satisfied. The pain and the blood distracted him, giving him a sense of relief from the situation around him. He was far away from the room, the house, the world, and the universe. There was no name for the feeling that he felt as he hands shook with a strange pleasure. Euphoria was at the tip of his tongue, but it did not sound right to him.

The blood started to cake around the cut, as the scabs started to form. Frowning, he pulled down his sleeves and shoved everything back into the floorboard. With a small thud it was put back into place. He was done for the today, knowing that tomorrow he would crave it again. But he was happy for the moment. Happy enough to crawl under the covers, and fall asleep. _It only for a few hours_, he thought, _it is better than nothing_.

Later evening, he was startled and woken up by the sounds of footsteps coming from the first floor. This was weird, knowing that the whole family would be out for the evening and part of the night. The Dursleys had no shame in reminding them that they were home---usually to tell him what to do or what he did not do. Grabbing his wand from the floorboard, he started to slowly creep towards the door.

The footsteps grew louder, rushing up the stabs as his grip on the wand tighten. This was nerve-wracking. Harry stood his ground as the brass doorknob started to jiggle violently before the door flew open. He was surprised to see who came out from the other side, someone who he did not expect.

"Lupin?"

**Author Note**: With three reviews, I am happy. I have never been one of those authors will go to her knees and beg for reviews so I could continue on with my story. Personally I also found that a bad tactic on gaining friends, and more so that it relied on pity. For me, I am happy on the fact that people are actually reading my fanfic. Yep. Ecstatic.

And yes, it takes place during the fifth year with some major and minor changes to the plotline.


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